


A Family Outing

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mention of the Holocaust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: In which Greg would win medals if dodging his parents' questions about his love life was an Olympic sport, and his mum demonstrates that he is not the only detective in the family.Please note that the Holocaust is mentioned.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 17
Kudos: 111





	A Family Outing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is no my property. 
> 
> Beta'd by my dear friend RomanyWalker. 
> 
> The Holocaust is mentioned indirectly in relation to the Lestrade family's past. 
> 
> I would love your feedback :)

Had someone told Greg that Mycroft Holmes was a cuddler before they got together, he would have thought them mad. Mycroft was cold, calculating, and more than a bit creepy, but it turned out that he really _did_ have a penchant for cuddling, and Greg had never been so happy to be proved wrong. 

“Speak one word of what just passed through your mind to anyone outside of this room, and I will never fellate you again,” Mycroft threatened as he finger-combed Greg’s hair. 

“You know you don’t mean that,” Greg grinned up at his partner from where his head was pillowed on the other man’s thigh. 

Mycroft looked down his nose and his lips curled into a shark-like smile. “Is that a risk you would like to take?”

“That’s an empty threat and you know it: you like sucking me off as much as I like sucking you off, and that’s a _lot_.” Greg nudged Mycroft’s hand for more petting.

“Hush, you,” Mycroft admonished, a small but real smile tugging at the edges of his lips as he re-focussed his attention on The Life of Brian and resumed finger-combing Greg’s hair. 

There were many things Greg enjoyed about their Friday nights in, but how comfortable Mycroft was when it was just the two of them was right up at the top of the list. Lying on his sofa with his head in Mycroft’s lap, it was still hard to believe that this change had only happened in the last six months; it felt so natural, so right, that it was easy to forget the months of internal angst when he had been psyching himself up to broaching the subject of _feelings_. That had all been for naught, anyway, because it had turned out that all he’d needed to do was imbibe a little too much wine over dinner and blurt out that he _really_ wanted to kiss him. Twenty minutes later, they’d been shedding their clothes in Mycroft’s cavernous hall like a couple of horny teenagers. 

Mycroft tugged Greg’s hair reprovingly. “You’re not to tell anyone about that, either.”

“That’s a pity. Talking about you without your clothes on is a _great_ way to get Sherlock out of my office. It’s a hell of a flouncing action he’s got.”

“Hmm. He has at least learned to think twice about invading my bedroom at anti-social hours.” 

The memory of how dramatically Sherlock had paled the night he had swanned into Mycroft’s bedroom and found his pet detective inspector riding his brother was suddenly as clear as the room around them. “His _face_.” 

“Quite,” Mycroft murmured as he bent to kiss Greg. “Though I confess that I was rather too focussed on your face to pay his much mind.”

Greg felt his cheeks heat. After twenty five years married to a woman he could now admit had been abusive, hearing Mycroft openly express affection and desire always touched something deep inside him. 

The doorbell sounding saved Greg from the need to find a response. “Dinner’s early,” he said instead, with a glance at his new watch. “You get that, I’ll get the plates.”

It was as he opened the cutlery drawer that the evening went to pot. “Oh, good; you’ll be Greg’s boyfriend,” his mother’s strident voice emanated from the hall. Greg froze to the spot, eyes fixed unseeingly on the kettle, his mind readily supplying the image of his mum stepping into the flat and purposefully shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Rebekah and Abe Lestrade,” she said, completely in sync with Greg’s imagination. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

“Mycroft Holmes; I’m delighted to meet you,” Mycroft replied with enviable calm. “Greg will be just a moment.”

The sound of the front door closing galvanised Greg into action. As much as he might have liked to hide in the kitchen for the next thirty seven years, his mother was a force of nature and would invade his hidey hole to extract him by his ear if he did not emerge voluntarily. Carefully, he placed the cutlery atop the plates he’d got out and ran a hand through his hair, steeling himself for what was going to be the most important conversation he’d had with his parents in years. “Mum, Dad,” he greeted as he stepped out into the hall, trying - and failing - not to sound guilty. “This is a surprise.”

“Well, we were on our way home from the synagogue and thought it’d be nice to pop in,” Abe replied, his tone of voice telling Greg everything he needed to know about whose idea this unannounced visit was. 

“Your house is ten minutes away from the synagogue, and they’re both in Golders bloody Green: I live in _Islington_.” Greg snapped, shoving his shaking hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. _’This isn’t happening’,_ he told himself as his mum smiled benignly and ambled past him into the living room. As much as he loved his parents he just was not ready for this, not so soon after repairing the damage his ex-wife had done his relationship with them. 

“We took the scenic route. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” Abe filed past in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Greg gawping in his wake. 

In his state of heightened anxiety, Greg barely noticed Mycroft moving until the other man slipped an arm around his waist. “Breathe, Greg. They know about us and they aren’t angry. It’s going to be alright.”

Greg exhaled heavily. “You didn’t hear what my dad used to say about Pride marches, love. There’s a _reason_ I’ve made myself a cosy home in the closet.”

Mycroft stroked his side soothingly. “Perhaps not, but you know me; do you honestly believe that I would have failed to deduce the faintest hint of homophobia or animosity?”

“No, you’re right. It’s just...you know.” Greg gestured vaguely, hoping that Mycroft understood. “They’re old, religious, and vote Tory: this isn’t going to end well.”

“I promise you that it is going to be absolutely fine,” Mycroft soothed, voice pitched just right for slipping under the swell of Greg’s anxiety. “Trust me.”

One moment passed, and then another, as Greg’s heart rate slowed back down to something approaching normal. Mycroft was right, of course; neither of his parents seemed in any way uncomfortable or angry, and denying it at this point would be an exercise in futility. Though quite how his mum had known that Mycroft was his boyfriend and not, say, a friend or colleague, was another question entirely. “Right, let’s do this.”

Rebekah smiled as they entered the living room, the glint in her eye unsettlingly reminiscent of the look she’d given him the morning after finding the packet of cigarettes in his underwear drawer when he’d been fifteen. “Abe’s been wanting to use your fancy coffee machine for weeks,” she said as Greg and Mycroft settled on the sofa opposite. 

Greg muted the TV as the coffee grinder came to life. “I picked it up in the Black Friday sale,” he explained hurriedly, knowing how his mum felt about wasting money. “It was a bargain.”

“You don’t need to explain how you spend your money to me, Greg. I’m not that ex of yours.” Rebekah smoothed down the front of her grey tweed skirt. “What I _would_ like you to explain is why you’ve been hiding this lovely young man from us.”

Mycroft pressed his thigh against Greg’s reassuringly. “I…” Greg floundered. “I wasn’t _hiding_ him, exactly.”

“No?” Abe asked as he emerged from the kitchen with a tray bearing a pot of tea, a cafetiere, and four cups. “Then why did you dodge telling us for so long that your mum resorted to reading your messages to confirm what we already knew?” 

“ _You what?_ ” Greg fumed, sitting bolt upright. There was a moment of panic until he remembered that they didn’t share anything truly intimate via text, given how closely Mycroft was monitored, but that was hardly the point. “You can’t do that, Mum! How did you even unlock —”

“— You used the date of your Bar Mitzvah as your keycode. We remember when that was, too, Greg,” his mum interrupted placidly as she depressed the cafetiere’s plunger. “Do you really think we didn’t know you’d found someone? When you started visiting all but glowing and then clammed up every time we asked about it...well, we’re old but we’re not stupid.”

“That doesn’t mean you can invade my privacy!” Greg insisted, glaring at Rebekah. His dad may well have been complicit in this, but he knew who wore the trousers in that relationship. “Why didn’t you just _ask_ me?”

“We did,” Abe replied. “Several times. Last time I asked about your love life, you told us all about the DCI job coming up and then asked after your brother’s piles.”

“If I may?” Mycroft interjected smoothly when Greg spluttered, placing a hand on Greg’s knee. “Greg and I have been good friends for several years, and we felt that it was important to make sure that we were entirely comfortable with the change in our relationship before involving our wider family and friends. It was a joint decision.”

Greg nodded emphatically as Mycroft lied through his teeth.

Apparently pleased that Mycroft was willing to defend their son, Rebekah and Abe smiled approvingly, but there was a dangerous glint in Rebekah’s eye that Greg did not like one little bit. “Nice try, Mycroft, but we _do_ read Dr Watson’s blog. We’ve had that picture of the two of you printed,” she said with a smile. “I’m glad he’s found someone who looks at him the way you do. It’s long overdue”

Seeing Mycroft blush was a rare occurrence indeed, but his mum managing it within ten minutes of meeting him came as no surprise. Mycroft cleared his throat and said, “Ah, yes. My brother has always been a menace with a camera.” 

Greg snorted. “Your brother’s a menace full stop.”

“Your brother has our thanks,” Abe said. He paused to sip his coffee, gaze flicking between them. “We knew he was seeing someone, and we knew it was a man, but he clammed up every time we brought it up. That picture was the confirmation we needed.”

“Yeah, and then Mum decided to break into my phone and read my fu— my messages. They’re _private_.”

“We changed your nappies for three years, Greg: you haven’t got anything that we haven’t seen before,” Rebekah replied unapologetically. “Anyway, I was only looking for the next time you were seeing each other.”

“That’s not the point, Mum. It’s not just a violation of my privacy, but Mycroft’s, too.”

Rebekah looked uncomfortable for the first time since they’d arrived. “Yes, I apologise for that,” she said sincerely, looking at Mycroft.

“Apology accepted,” Mycroft replied gravely, and squeezed Greg’s knee. “I must, however, insist that you refrain from it in the future. After all, you may have seen Greg’s genitalia, but I prefer to keep mine private.” Though he was serious, there was enough of a teasing edge to soften the reprimand. He was nothing if not a consummate diplomat. 

Abe and Rebekah nodded their agreement, both gratifyingly shame-faced.

“Thank you.” Greg poured himself a coffee and Mycroft a tea. “What made you think I’m...well, you know. What made you think I was with a man?” he asked, handing Mycroft his tea. 

“You mean how did we know you’re gay?” Abe asked. “I could say that we’re your parents and we know you better than you know yourself, but I’d be lying.” He turned to look at Rebekah with a mischievous smile. “How many times did he show up for the Saturday Shabbat service with stubble-burn, dear?”

Rebekah grinned, the impish glint in her eyes taking years off her. “You know, I’m not sure, but it must have been a good four weeks before we realised he hadn’t just developed eczema. He was very prone to it on his face as a baby, after all.”

Greg dropped his head into his hands with a mortified groan as Mycroft chuckled beside him. “Fucking kill me now.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for that language, sheifale,” Rebekah chided, sounding far too amused for Greg’s good.

Mycroft slipped his free arm around Greg’s waist. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for any recurrences of it.”

Greg’s response was another groan as his parents laughed. _’At least they’re getting on,’_ he thought eventually. As mortifying as it was, this could definitely have been worse. Summoning what remained of his wits, Greg lifted his head and looked at his parents. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright with this?”

“Of course we are,” they said in sync. 

Despite it having been absolutely clear throughout their visit that they did not have a problem with his being in a relationship with a man, the relief at hearing them say it was so profound that Greg’s eyes filled. 

“I’m sorry for what we said or did in the past that made you think otherwise,” Rebekah said. “We can’t undo what has been done, but we can - and _do_ \- promise that you and Mycroft have nothing to fear from us or the rest of the family.”

Greg’s willpower lost its battle with his emotions and he buried his face in his hands. One deep, shuddering breath followed another as Mycroft stroked his back soothingly. “It’s alright, Greg,” the younger man murmured, lips brushing his temple in a barely there kiss. 

With a concerted effort, Greg pulled the threads of dignity back together and looked directly at Abe. “Nineteen eighty one. It was in the news that the London Pride march was being moved to Huddersfield to support the queer community up there because they were being targeted by the police, and you sat there with your paper and your coffee and said ‘these queers brought it on themselves, flaunting their abnormality like that’,” he quoted verbatim. The whole exchange had lasted less than thirty seconds, but it had stuck with him for the better part of forty years. “I was eighteen, Dad, and I knew I wasn’t straight. It sounds stupid now, but that stuck with me. I didn’t want you thinking about me like that. Between that and going into the police, I decided it was better just to turn that part of me off.” 

Abe’s face crumpled, his wrinkles suddenly standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin. “I’m so sorry, son,” he said after a long moment of heavy silence, wizened fingers tapping his now-empty cup. “It’s not an excuse, but the world was a completely different place when your mum and I were young. We were refugees here and too young to really remember clearly, but we lost whole branches of our families in Europe because of someone else’s idea of what was human, what was normal, and that leaves its mark. I never had a problem with gays, but going out and waving banners, deliberately drawing attention to themselves when they _knew_ the public and the state would be against them...that felt wrong.” Abe looked directly at Greg, his dark eyes radiating sincerity. “ _I_ was wrong: those people didn’t bring the violence or fear on themselves any more than my family in Amsterdam or Hamburg did, but I didn’t understand it that way at the time.” 

It felt like weight lifted from Greg’s mind with each word Abe spoke. He let them sink in, chasing away the fear that his dad would reject him or tell him that he only had himself to blame if he experienced homophobia. He put his cup down with a clatter and lurched across the room to where his parents were sitting. He needn’t have feared disapprobation for displaying affection in front of someone who wasn’t family: Abe and Rebekah stood and met him halfway. 

“We love you, Greg, and we are so proud of you,” Abe said as he embraced his son with strength belying his age. Greg’s answer was a strangled sob, but he was too overwhelmed to worry about dignity. 

“Promise me that you won’t keep something like this to yourself again,” Rebekah asked, stroking his back soothingly. “If we say or do something that hurts you, we need to know.”

Greg nodded into Abe’s shoulder and set about pulling himself together. “I promise,” he said eventually, voice muffled by the fabric of his dad’s jacket. 

A long moment passed before Greg felt in control enough to step back, and he was relieved to find that he was not the only Lestrade who had been moved to tears. “Sorry about that,” he said, wiping ineffectually at the wet spot on Abe’s shoulder. 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Abe replied roughly as he and Rebekah sat down. 

“Sorry about that, love,” Greg said as he re-joined Mycroft on the sofa.

“As your father said, you have nothing to apologise for,” Mycroft replied, only years of experience allowing Greg to hear the emotion in his partner’s voice. It was a rare thing indeed for Mycroft to show emotion, and it was almost exclusively reserved for Sherlock when he did. 

Greg was once again saved by the doorbell. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that only twenty minutes had passed. “That _will_ be dinner this time.”

“And that is our cue to leave,” Rebekah said as she stood and reached for her walking stick. “We’ll be having lunch after the Shabbat service tomorrow,” she told Mycroft. “We’d like it if you’d join us.”

“Thanks, Mum, but Mycroft’s a—” 

“—valiable,” Mycroft interjected, cutting Greg off before he could make an excuse on account of his general busyness. “Thank you; I’d be delighted.”

“Wonderful,” Abe replied, ambling past them into the hall as the doorbell rang for a second time. Greg was saddened to note that his yarmulke no longer covered his bald spot; though he saw his parents every week, the speed with which they were aging still took him by surprise. “Meet us outside the synagogue at Alyth Gardens at about twelve thirty and we’ll go from there.”

Greg got to the front door and opened it to find the usual delivery man from the Lotus Lounge. “Thanks,” he said, taking the bags and handing the young man a tip. 

“That smells nice,” Rebekah said, kissing Greg’s cheek en route to the door as the delivery man left. 

“It’s kosher,” Greg promised hurriedly, lying through his teeth. 

“Hmm, as kosher as those bacon butties you think we don’t know about,” Abe replied, patting Greg’s arm in passing. “We’ll see you tomorrow, son. Goodnight, Mycroft.”

Greg watched numbly as his parents walked out into the street. “That did _not_ just happen.” 

“It did, and you handled it magnificently.” Mycroft reached around Greg to close the door and then took the bags from him. “Dinner, I think.”

“Hmm, yeah.” 

Greg collected the plates and cutlery on the way back to the living room, taking a moment in the kitchen to wash his face and get the shaking of his hands under control. 

“It feels surreal,” he told Mycroft as he re-entered the living room. “I didn’t think I’d ever be out of the closet with them.”

Mycroft took the plates and cutlery from him and placed them on the table with their dinner. “And yet here you are. I’m very proud of you,” he replied, drawing Greg into a warm embrace. They shared a brief, tender kiss, and it was a balm for Greg’s frazzled nerves. “You really are your mother’s double.”

“Yeah. My uncle Gabe always said I was like my mum but without the tits.” Greg feathered kisses across Mycroft’s jaw, enjoying his stubble and reassuring scent. “I thought you were at some boring embassy do tomorrow.”

“I was, but this is far more important. The permanent secretary at the Department for Administrative Affairs owes me a favour; she will have the pleasure of the US ambassador's company in my place.” His smile was audible. “Your parents have superb timing.”

Greg snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.” He sat up and started pulling plastic tubs out of the bag before their dinner got much colder. “I’m sorry she did that, love.”

“Please listen to me, Greg: you have nothing to apologise for. My brat of a brother took the photograph, Dr Watson colluded by publishing it on his blog, and your mother invaded your privacy; _none_ of that was your doing.” He kissed Greg’s temple and turned his attention to serving dinner. “I do wish that you would allow me to...punish your delightful ex-wife for what she did to your self-esteem.”

“You’re not killing her or having her disappeared, Mycroft. We’ve had this conversation,” Greg replied fondly. “You were there for me when I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone else, and you put me back together when I finally ended it. It’s punishment enough that she’s seeing me happier than I ever was with her. Well, that and everyone thinking that she’s such a cow that she turned me gay.” 

“Very well. Though if you change your mind…”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to let you know,” Greg promised with a smile. “Right, dinner. Just as well this stuff’s full of additives,” he continued, gesturing at the open tubs with his fork, “because you’re going to need your energy tomorrow. It’s not just going to be Mum and Dad once the family know you’re going to be there; Gabe’ll be there with Sarah and their kids and grandkids, and if we’re really unlucky my aunt Rachel will get down from Birmingham in time. Fair warning: she used to have this really bad habit of groping men joining the family as some sort of weird initiation rite.”

Mycroft smiled and picked up his chopsticks. “A true family outing in every sense.”

**Author's Note:**

> Holocaust Memorial Day is marked on 27th January in the UK. The atrocities committed are still within living memory yet the lesson has not been learnt. That has been on my mind a lot recently, and this has come from those musings.
> 
> https://www.hmd.org.uk/news/theme-announced-for-hmd-2021-be-the-light-in-the-darkness/


End file.
